Round 85

The stone passageway breathes with a living rhythm, walls of carved flesh pulsing in syncopated cadence as the air grows thick and anticipatory. The walls' surfaces quiver, tissue shifting visibly now with coordinated intelligence—clearly more than mere architecture responding to their presence.

Jeane descends into the chamber below, her flame struggling at barely 20% output, a flickering candle against encroaching darkness. The arcane strain shows in every movement, corruption seepage from downstairs already affecting her skin despite distance and Halie's divine protection. Her expression remains focused but anxiety tightens the corners of her eyes—too much power contained here, too many unknown variables.

Silra maintains strict three-meter distance, her forearm now 75% consumed by creeping fungal growth, nerves permanently damaged according to her own assessment. The cold is spreading, sensation fading in fingers already. She communicates through hand signals and whispered updates—professional, efficient despite obvious distress. Her bright teal eyes track every shift in the walls' movement patterns, calculating angles and escape routes even as she fights the urge to collapse or scream.

The ancient intelligence behind this place registers their presence fully now—the walls' quivering intensifies, new sections sliding open with grinding force. Whatever lies beyond those shifting barriers awaits them both, and time is running out for more than just Silra's arm.